


More than the sum

by bloodandcream



Series: Aesthetics [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Aromantic Dean, Asexual Castiel, F/M, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel liked to photograph - draw, dissect - the pieces and parts of the human body in close up. How they interact with one another. The importance of every little frame - the details. People were so much more than the sum total of their parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More than the sum

-

**2018**

-

Castiel crouched at the foot of the bed as he snapped several photographs of their feet. Bracketing each other, one large pair more tan and one smaller petite pair. Well manicured toes curling in to the sheets as her legs flexed with her movements. The graceful curve of a toned calf.

There. Broad hand against her back, dimple at the base of her spine framed by his thumb and forefinger. Perfect. Up, Castiel stood and moved to the side of the bed. Her head thrown back, slender neck arching and messy sandy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Swaying. Calloused fingers sliding up her side and cupping her face. Thumb against plush pink lips.

Sunlight streamed in the west facing window, lighting skin up golden, shining with perspiration. The red sheets - sanguine - rustled underneath them, pulled and pooled and created whorling patterns beneath their bodies. Castiel liked these sheets. They were a rich saturated color if he left the photographs in full color, or a dark contrast to their skin if he chose black and white.

He had started taking photographs to capture bodies moving too rapidly for him to produce decent paintings of. As much as he loved messy fast sketching in charcoal, oil and acrylic paintings on a large scale always sold better. He still sketched Dean at all times of day and night. But he usually photographed Dean with other people and then painted from the photographs later.

Red was the perfect color for Bela. It’s hard to describe how a person can be represented with a color. It was the curl of her lips, the glint in her eyes, the edge to her accent, the scrape of her nails over skin, the frenetic grace of her body - sinuous, wild, something like flame. She was red.

There. The curving roll of their stomachs as she hunched over him for a kiss and he rocked his hips up. Bowed away in the middle and curving towards each other on the ends. Parentheses. Imperfection. Beauty. Something of the softness of their bodies.

Dean gripped on to her wide hips - ideally, aesthetically, pleasing woman’s hips wide and fertile - and flipped her over. Drove in to her slow, slow. A smooth leg bent up around his waist, pulling him closer. Hands bracketing her face, fingers tangled in curls of hair, mattress sinking under his weight.

Castiel liked to photograph - draw, dissect - the pieces and parts of the human body in close up. How they interact with one another. The importance of every little frame - the details. People were so much more than the sum total of their parts. But how can you understand what more there is unless you understand the parts. Can you see, or guess, what more there is if you add up the parts and calculate the difference.

Medieval philosophers believed that human bodies were animated by the breath of God. Spark of the divine - The Soul. The extra. More than the sum total of the parts. To some the most quintessential piece of humanity. But if you cannot touch it, cannot see it, how do you know that it’s there. Perhaps if you take out all the pieces you can; in absence you can deduce the soul.

Castiel used to believe in God. With his whole heart he used to love God. He’s not too certain about the identity of God anymore, although neither does he believe in the absence of God. The soul however, that quintessential spark, that he believes in. And he will find it.

There. Lips to lips, lines of their noses symmetrical as they slow to kiss. Bela bites Dean’s lip and tugs, his eyes shutting as a groan seeps in to the space. He curves his spine, shoulder blades pushing out against his muscle and skin. That which is hidden underneath straining against the surface. There. 

It’s hard to quantify a soul. The duality of soul and body has always been a puzzle for humanity. Although people have also argued there is the mind, the body and the soul. More components than a simple two. Depending on the religion and culture, you can parse it down infinitely.

The brain and it’s neurological functions is a curious thing as well. More quantifiable, solid, even if it’s depth of mystery remains unplumbed. But can the brain be that extra more than the sum total, in electrical impulses, for there are those that say humans don’t have a soul.

No. Art, passion, love, sex, pride, sacrifice. These are more than predictable neurological pathways or physicality. It’s not exclusive to the human race. Castiel does not know with certainty but he does not doubt that other animals have souls as well. Humans are another kind of animal.

Bela crosses her ankles behind Dean’s waist, pulls herself up and rolls against his body. Like waves, moving, churning, crashing against each other. Human bodies in relation to one another like natural events, the world shifting. The macrocosm reflected in the microcosm.

There’s a certain spark in passion, in sex, that mystifies Castiel. It’s not necessarily an essential component of the soul, but it may be a part of it at least for some. It’s often irrational, unpredictable, more than the sum total can quantify. Human history is littered with a fascination - an obsession - with sex. It’s understandable to a degree, procreation being a driving factor of base nature for most. Statues of fertility gods, rites and rituals, wars waged, countless paintings and stories and songs about love and sex. The two are often conflated.

Sex is not necessary for love, nor love for sex. More often than not however it’s assumed that they go hand in hand. Castiel seeks to dismantle this notion. There is beauty in the human form, wonder in the attraction and interplay of bodies together. There is a spark here, an unnamable unknowable thing. But this isn’t love. It’s not supposed to be.

It’s a question to the audience. Do you see passion. Do you see affection. Do you see arousal. Do you see sin. Do you see form, the light and the shadow. What do these bodies mean to you.

Perhaps we are just egotistical creatures and like to think of  ourselves.

There is no shame in the pleasures of what comes naturally for so many. Or in how it comes. Whether it is between man and woman, or man and man, or woman or woman - varying combinations thereof. The pleasure of sex is an incentive for procreation, but humans have done perfectly fine on that account whether everyone contributes or not. It’s not something everyone wants. But everyone has a body. A physical reality wrapped around the unknowable. Everyone collides. 

There. Dean widens his thighs and kneels up pulling Bela in to his lap, hands on her knees. Fingers curving around the joint of her body, manipulating her, moving together, holding her. She reaches her arms above her head, holds on to the window sill. The bed has no frame, it sits in front of the window so the light can stream in over them. It’s the only thing in this room, simple, the focus is on the subjects. The muscles of Dean’s thighs taut pushed against the soft curve of her hips and waist. Red painted fingernails against the white window sill. Lips parted.

This is the guest room of their modest two bedroom apartment. It used to be Castiel’s room. Now, he sleeps in the same room - and bed - as Dean. He had come to love the comfort of another body near him, warm and alive and so much more than a sum of parts, so much more than a composition of limbs. He didn’t desire Dean the way Bela did, he didn’t feel that for anyone. But he did love Dean fiercely. It was his own spark, his own soul, longing for more - for some meaning, for some connection. Everyone has a spark, though they hold it in different places and for different reasons. It’s the human condition. 

And Castiel knew, without a doubt, that Dean loved him too. In his own way. As many different ways as there are to have sex, there are different ways to love. It’s an inadequate word. Castiel knows that Dean has deep wells of love; he has seen Dean with his brother, with his mother, with his friends. He is fiercely loyal and protective. He loves.

He doesn’t say it out loud to Castiel though. Castiel tries to understand. To say it to a partner who is not a relative and is yet more than a friend, it carries certain expectations with it. People make assumptions, about the ways in which one is supposed to love. Castiel can understand Dean’s avoidance. He demonstrates his affection in ways that mean more than words.

There. A moment of stillness. After. Dean has stilled over Bela. Her body has gone slack under him, stomach trembling finely. He pulls out and lays next to her, takes the condom off and tosses it in the small wastebasket by the bed. Looks over at her as she looks at him. Eyes aligned, cheeks flush, a shared moment of quiet connection in the after.

These moments, Castiel loves to capture these moments. There. Gentle hands touching, unwilling to let go for now. Tenderness, in the soft lingering press of lips. Freely given vulnerability. Something so much larger than the sum of parts in the space between them they cross with hands and tangled legs. It’s a tenuous thing, before Bela yawns and stretches her arms above her, looking over to wink at Castiel.

That’s mostly the end of it then, when she acknowledges him as watcher, recorder, and tries to draw him in.

Dean still has a hand cupping her breast.

Bela smiles and flexes her lithe body unabashed. “Well darlings it’s always fun getting together again with you, but I have a busy schedule to wrap up before tomorrow.”

Dean tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re heading out tomorrow yeah?”

“Auction in Venice . Do send me your finished work to review, Castiel.”

“Of course.”

“When is your next show?”

Castiel squints and tries to remember. “Uh. About two months”

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. “One month Cas. It’s in one month. God, I swear I need to tattoo a calendar on the insides of your eyelids.”

“But calendars are always changing. That would be useless.”

Bela laughs in that lilting chime of sound that is hers. 

Castiel is still snapping a few shots where their bodies intersect. Bela will be off for another art auction halfway across the world. She’ll pop up in their circle again months later. She might make it to his next show. Dean and Castiel were first introduced to her by Balthazar, Castiel’s close friend and the one who managed to craft his name in the art world. Castiel doesn’t have much talent for PR, not like Balthazar. He was talented at getting shows set up, renting the right spaces, drawing in crowds. He was sort of a manager. Although, Castiel never really thought of him in such a professional capacity. Balthazar certainly never acted very professional, but he was good at what he did.

He wanders away from the two of them while they chat a little in the afterglow. Castiel is more interested in transferring his photos onto the computer and reviewing them. He forgets sometimes that it’s rude to leave a room without saying goodbye. Bela won’t stay for long anyway. She comes and goes from their lives at her own whim, and Dean is more than content to see her when he does.

Castiel suspects that Bela is much like Dean. More interested in the pleasure of sex than in complex romantic involvement. He suspects she has a more long term love affair with her Louboutin’s than with any man. Which is perfectly fine. She is a very aesthetically pleasing subject to work with.

Connecting the USB cable to his camera, Castiel began transferring all the photographs. There were hundreds of them. He’d sift through minute changes in position, shifting light, differing arrangements of tangled sheets, to find those that had captured that unnamable spark. Setting up several folders to group them into categories of similarity to weed them out, he set to work.

His work station was set up in the living room. Down the hall he heard the shower running. That would be Bela. From the guest room he heard Dean changing the sheets. The quiet sound of his feet padding down the hallway to the kitchen where the wash machine was. The click of the keyboard and mouse as Castiel worked sporadicly. The little sounds of their three lives colliding and moving around each other. More than the sum of their parts.

Castiel was focused on his task though, everything else background noise. Bela clacked down the hall in her tall heels and he knew her make up and hair would be immaculate again without even looking. He heard her and Dean talking at the door.

_Always a pleasure to see you, do give Castiel a kiss for me._

The soft whisper of the two of them kissing.

_You have a safe flight._

_Ta._

The click of the door latch. Dean being noisy in the kitchen.

Castiel moved photographs around to different folders to organize them. Here a gentleness in the pliancy of her body, a strength in the grip of her hands. Exertion in the tension of his straining muscle, pleasure in the crease of his brow.

Castiel didn’t entirely understand why he was so fascinated by bodies. By sex. It wasn’t something that he understood, though he could study it in theory. Perhaps that was why he wanted to know, because he felt as though he were on the periphery sometimes, not quite part of them, those who sought the company of others for pleasure or who wove it into their companionship or performed for the sake of procreation because it was what they expected. It was a nuanced and complicated thing.

He didn’t understand it how Dean did, but he could see the patterns and the balance, the beauty even in the simplest smallest parts.

A plate clattered on the wood desk next to his keyboard. Dean leaned against the desk, wearing boxers, looking at what Castiel was working on.

Castiel eyed the sandwich Dean had made for him. "You know I don’t like eating at the computer.”

“I also know you’re going to be glued to that thing for the rest of the night. Have you eaten anything since breakfast?”

Castiel had to think about that. “No.”

“It’s turkey. And I brought you a napkin.”

Castiel accepted the napkin Dean waved at him and inspected the sandwich. Not just turkey. Peppered turkey. With dijon mustard, swiss cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles on wheat bread. His stomach grumbled. Castiel sighed and took a bit of the sandwich, immediately taking another bite before chewing. It was really good.

Dean pointed at one of the pictures on the screen.

“I like that one.”

Castiel wiped his hands and pulled up two windows side by side. “Do you like this composition better or this?”

Dean hummed and considered a moment. He pointed back at the original picture he had commented on.

“That one.”

Castiel squinted between the two folders of pictures, slightly different asymmetry in the positions, two sets he’d refine further once he eliminated some. He closed and moved the folder Dean had pointed at to the 'yes’ side of the screen, moving the other to the 'no’ side.

Dean ran his fingers through Castiel’s hair and he leaned in to the contact.

“All right, I need a shower. You make sure to finish that sandwich.”

Castiel was chewing another bite when Dean bent over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Tearing his gaze away from the computer he tipped up to press a kiss to Dean’s cheek. There was a smear of mustard left behind. Castiel swiped it with his thumb.

“Thanks for the sandwich.”

“Sure. Wow my ass looks great in that one.”

Dean pointed out another picture on the screen, giving Castiel a thumbs up before turning and disappearing down the hall.


End file.
